


These Goodbyes (Dance Like Fire)

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 11:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17508080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: “I, uh. I’m sorry I’m not very emotional.” Eliot reaches up, absentmindedly tugging at the pink bottle on the chain around his neck. It’s warm against his chest, against his fingertips. “I didn’t think I’d be able to handle coming here without my bottling them.” He looks down at the flowers at the base of the grave stone. “I woke up a few weeks ago. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I was . . . I did not take the news well.”Alt. Eliot visits a grave.





	These Goodbyes (Dance Like Fire)

 

Eliot walks down the path, careful to avoid stepping on the grass, with a clear destination in mind. The ground beneath his feet is wet, and gives way with each step, but it doesn’t deter him. Only urges him forward, even as mud cakes the sides of his shoes.

When he arrives, he stands there for a few long moments, gazing down at the one thing he’s been too scared to come face to face with. He’d missed the funeral, in his grief. Missed the wake, when the stone replaced the little plaque--too guilt ridden to even get out of bed. Margo came back after both, shedding her little black dresses, and climbed into his bed. She didn’t say anything, but when she curled up around him, he felt her silent sobs shaking her.  

Even now, he’s cheating. He’s here, but not really.

He licks his lips. “Hi,” he says to the plot in front of the stone.

“I, uh. I’m sorry I’m not very emotional.” Eliot reaches up, absentmindedly tugging at the pink bottle on the chain around his neck. It’s warm against his chest, against his fingertips. “I didn’t think I’d be able to handle coming here without my bottling them.” He looks down at the flowers at the base of the grave stone. “I woke up a few weeks ago. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I was . . . I did not take the news well.”

_His back is sore, pressed up against cold stone. No—wood. Cold wood. Barely blinking into consciousness when he hears Margo’s desperate inhale, and feels her hands sliding up against his shoulder, squeezing like she can’t believe he’s real. He opens his eyes, blinks blearily up at her, “Margo?” He asks, “What—“_

_She shakes her head, chin trembling, before she leans down and pulls him into a bone crushing hug, burying her face in his aching chest. Slowly, with lead heavy arms, he reaches around to hug her back. One of his hands comes up to wrap around the back of her neck, as something warm seeps through his shirt. He looks behind her—see’s Penny, Kady and Josh all staring at him with wide eyes and slack jaws. He furrows his brow._

_“What happened?” He asks, voice hoarse and scratchy._

_Margo hiccups, before pulling away to look down at him. The others all look away, like they don’t know what to say—or how to tell him something. Margo stares down at him with a pinched brow and a clenched jaw, as she brings one hand up to stroke his cheek. “So much,” She says. “But you’re back.”_

He lets go of the bottle, feels the pressure of it back against his sternum, and moves to set down the bundle of roses beside the lilacs and daisies on the gravestone. One of his knees hits the ground as he kneels there, and his free hand goes out to trace the looping Q on the face of the stone.

“I spent the first week trying to find a way to get you back.” His hand slides down the face of the stone, until his fingers dig gently into the wet grass at the base of it. “But you weren’t in the underworld. You moved on.”

_He sits up, Margo carefully holding onto his arm to keep him stable. His whole body aches, like he’s been beaten within an inch of his life. He blinks heavily, one hand coming up to press against his temple. His head is sore--like he’s hungover from a three week long bender._

_He looks around the room, vision only slightly blurry, and takes in his surroundings. He doesn’t recognize the room--or, the apartment? But, it’s a mess--broken wood and glass litter the floors. There’s a door between two rooms, hanging off the hinges, swinging slightly. A soft squeaking that echoes in the virtually silent room. Kady moves forward then, kneeling on broken glass and pressing a hand to his other temple._

_His headache fades after a moment, and she lets go, sitting back on his haunches as his vision clears. “You had us worried for a minute there,” Penny says, as he clears the distance between them in three short strides. “Welcome back.”_

_Eliot blinks. “Back?” He asks, looking at each of them individually. “From where?”_

_“Not so much as from where,” Josh says, moving to stand next to Penny. “Actually, I don’t even know how to explain it.”_

_Eliot’s gaze darts back to Margo, but she’s looking down at the space between them. Her grip tightens on his arm, almost worryingly so. He opens his mouth to ask her what’s wrong, but Kady shifts, moving to sit on the remnants of a chair._

_“You were possessed by the monster,” She mutters. His gaze snaps up to her as she runs a hand through her hair shakily. “For about eight months.”_

_His heart stops for a fraction of a second. “The--”_

_“Yeah. That monster.”_

_“But--how--” He stops, shaking his head, “That doesn’t make sense. We were just--”_

_“At least he doesn’t remember,” Penny says. “That makes it easier, doesn't it? He can’t blame himself if he can’t remember.”_

_Margo scoffs. “Yeah--if you’d killed Kady while possessed by the monster would you feel any less guilty just because you can’t remember it?”_

_Something about her tone--choked off and violent--has Eliot’s gaze slowly sliding back over to her. There’s an implication he’s not getting. Something cold behind her words that he’s too tired to understand._

_“What did I do?” He asks, quiet, furrowing his brow. Margo refuses to look at him, gaze deadlocked on Kady, so he carefully turns to look at the others. Kady looks away, clenching her jaw. Penny looks down at the ground and licks his lips._

_Josh takes a deep breath as Eliot’s gaze settles on him. “Oh come on,” He says, “I am not going to be the one to tell him!”_

_“Tell me what?” He frowns, twists his neck. Where are the others? Blinking, he shifts back around and looks at Josh again. “Where’s everyone else?” Josh shifts awkwardly, opening and closing his mouth. “Julia? Alice? . . . Quentin?”_

_Somehow it’s saying his name that starts to put things into perspective, and his gaze slams back over to Penny. “Where’s Quentin?” He asks, harder. He tries to move, but his ribs ache, and his stomach screams where all the muscles stretch and pull in agonizingly separate directions._

“Julia reached out to her god friends--none of them could find your soul. Nobody knew where you went. For a few days I thought that you . . . just moved on. That you didn’t want to wait for me, because of what I did to you. But then Iris told us what she thought happened.” He shifts as the knees of his pants grow damp, and opts to just sit on the plot of grass.

He moves until he’s sitting with his legs crossed, tilting his head down at the stone. His hands fall to his lap. “It bleeped you out of existence, Q. You didn’t move on. You died. In every way imaginable.”

Nodding to himself, he leans forward and plucks at the grass in front of him. “That’s when I finally broke. I was--operating on a body falling apart because of everything the monster did to it. I was exhausted, and dehydrated. Just--completely gone. But not like you were. I guess I fainted in the living room, and Margo found me. She put me on bed rest.”

He yanks a blade of grass out of the ground, and stares down at it for a beat, before continuing. “And then . . . I just refused to get out of bed entirely.”

_“Margo?”_

_She heaves in a breath, but shakes her head. “I can’t.” She breathes, glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “I can’t, El.”_

_Eliot stares down at her, confused, until her hears a defeated sigh. He looks up in the direction it came from, and finds Penny staring at him. “I’ll do it,” He says, moving to kneel in front of him. Eliot can’t even tell if this is their Penny or the Penny from the other timeline. “Before I do, though, man. You--you need to realize that what happened wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even here.”_

_Eliot shifts so he can give him his full attention. “What happened?”_

He drops the grass and brings his hand back up to the bottle, closing his eyes as the heat of it fills him up. “I almost tried to kill myself,” He says without opening his eyes. “About a week ago. Everybody else was gone, except for Todd. He was babysitting me. He saved me.”

He laughs, humorlessly, to himself. “Up until an hour ago i hated him for it. For him ripping the knife out of my hands, and spelling me to the chair until the others came back. I wanted to kill him for it. But he sat there with me. Talked to me. Talked me down.” He opens his eyes then, nail scraping against the side of the bottle. “Did you know that Todd also has a really shitty upbringing?

“Yeah, me neither. But he told me about it. Some kind of Dumbledore level of trauma. He’s the reason his sister died. He understood, on some level, what I was going through. He was the only one who did.” Dropping the bottle, Eliot lets his gaze level on the lilacs. “Convinced me that coming here was the only way it’d get easier. That I wouldn’t be able to move on until I said goodbye to you.”

A breath eases out of him. “Problem is, Q.” His gaze follows along the side of the stone until it can focus on the Q again. “I don’t think I can say goodbye to you.”

_“Quentin’s dead.”_

_Eliot stares at him for a few long moments. The words don’t register right away--like it’s a sentence that shouldn’t even exist. Like these words in this order don’t make sense to Eliot’s mind. Like he’s speaking an entirely different language._

_But then they settle in the pit of Eliot’s stomach._

_And he jerks out of Margo’s grasp, shakily moving backwards, scrambling against the slippery, bloody wooden floors away from them, as something heavy and cold and aching works its way through his body._

_“No,” He says, shaking his head in three quick jerks, as his hands slip, and he falls backwards onto the wood. His back screams in pain as every nerve feels like it’s been lit on fire, and he struggles against the slippery-sticky mess, tries to get away from this world--this lie. This--whatever this fantasy is. It’s just a nightmare, it has to be. He’s dreamt this dream a million times._

_Nightmares of killing the people he loves._

_That’s all this is._

“I realized that night, that I can say goodbye to anyone else. That I would trade anyone else in that room for you. In a heartbeat. Without hesitation.”

He pauses.

“So I went to Fillory in the hopes of doing exactly that.”

_“Eliot, Eliot--you need to breathe.”_

“Thing is. Not even the winters doe, or the great cock, or any of the other useless magical creatures could bring you back. Not even some monstrous, deformed, psychopathic zombie version of you.” His gaze strays back over to the lilacs on the side of the grave. “You were as gone as gone could be.”

_He opens his eyes, gasping, trying to find air, but it’s evading him, coming and going too quickly. Long hair cascades over him as pain shoots down his spine. But a cool hand presses against his temple, “Shh, it’s going to be okay. You need to sleep, now.” Her voice is so familiar, so soothing, and his eyes close of their own accord, determined to obey her._

_When he drifts, he’s back home. Watching Quentin and their son on the mosaic._

Eliot wraps his hand around the bottle again. “I was tempted. To not take the bottle off. To let all my feelings slip away into nothingness so I never have to feel that grief again.” He shakes his head, places his free hand flat against the grass beneath him and gazes down at it. “But that’d mean never feeling the good parts either.”

He sits there for a few long moments, before inhaling and yanking the bottle and the chain off his neck. It snaps, and the chain falls limply in his hand, clanking against the sides of the bottle.

“The good parts in the memories are all I have of you anymore, Q,” He sighs, bringing his free hand up to grab at the lid of the bottle. “And the grief. But . . . that’s life, I guess.”

_It’s not long before he opens his eyes. A small smile flits along his lips, the vestiges of his dreams, dancing along his consciousness. Dreams of Quentin and their son. Of the three of them, living their lives. Of the grandchildren._

_“You’re awake.”_

_He turns his head, and the image of Margo sitting by his bed, tear tracks on her cheeks, shatters the memories. It starts to come back to him; reality._

_Reality._

_Quentin’s dead._

“Maybe that’s why Todd’s stronger than me.” He yanks the top off the bottle, inhales angrily as all the emotions come back to him, bearing down and enveloping his every nerve.

_His heartbeat stutters for a moment, as it waits to sync up with something that’s not there anymore._

_“Quentin,” He says. His voice comes out as barely more than a whisper, but Margo must hear it because her eyes fill with tears, and her chin trembles as she nods at him shakily._

_She doesn’t say anything for a long moment._

_“Yeah, El,” She finally breathes, nodding. “Quentin’s dead.”_

His neck stretches backward, as a long broken groan works its way out of him. It all comes back like a flash flood, grief and mourning showering him like bloody water crashing into shore. He drops the bottle into the grass, and grabs fistfuls of grass in its place in an attempt to anchor himself.

_“How long?”_

_She sucks her bottom lip in and looks down at the bed between them. “Two days.”_

_“How?”_

His nails dig into the mud beneath the grass, as he tries to level himself out. But he opens his eyes, lets them track over the words on the gravestone.

 

QUENTIN COLDWATER

July 1992 - October 2018.

Beloved friend and hero.

 

It’s not fair. His body wracks with a sob that shakes him to the core, and he closes his eyes again. He deserved a better epitaph.

He deserved a longer life.

_“El . . .”_

_“Tell me how he died, Bambi.”_

_She clicks her jaw and looks away. “He figured out how to kill the monster, but keep you alive,” She murmurs, wringing her hands together on the side of the bed. “But the monster found out. It--it called him a traitor. And killed him.”_

_“How did it--” He breaks off, furrowing his brow. “I don’t understand. I--I killed the monster.”_

_She looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “El . . .”_

_“Didn’t I?”_

_Sniffling, she reaches out and grabs his hand. Squeezes it so tight her knuckles go white. “Eliot, you need to know that none of this is your fault.”_

_“What?”_

He curls up on the ground, one hand laying flat, like he’s reaching out to touch Quentin’s. He sinks a little, and his clothes are sopping wet, clinging to his skin.

It starts raining again, and his tears disappear.

He’s fading with them.

_“It--it could possess people,” She says, locking her eyes on him. “It--”_

_Something clicks, and he jerks away, eyes going wide as his heart stops again. She holds tight to his hand, even as he tries to move away. “No--” He says, reaching up with his free hand to try and pry himself free. “I--” A low whine works its way out of his throat, and he stops moving abruptly. He stares down at their hands for a moment, before slowly, so slowly, turning his gaze up to her._

_“Me?”_

“Don’t worry, Q,” His words slur together, barely audible beneath the pouring rain as it pounds down on him.

_Margo shakes her head. “No--the monster--”_

“I’ve got you.”

Fading fast.

“There’s a spell,” He murmurs, letting his eyes fall closed, “You can poison--poison your own heart.” He digs his fingers into the mud again, pretends he’s lacing his fingers through Quentin’s. “Using an emotion bottle.” He laughs, the sound more like a sob, and barely a sound at all. “Told them--I’d stop trying to hurt myself. And that I’d come here--if they gave me an emotion bottle.

“I told them I just needed to say goodbye.”

_“I killed Quentin?”_

“They just didn’t realize, Q. I’m surprised they didn’t realize.”

_“The monster killed him.”_

_He shakes his head. “I killed Quentin.”_

“I could live without you,” He says, softer, as his face nuzzles into the cool grass. “But why should I?” He throat scratches angrily, forcing a hacking cough up and out. “I’ve been miserable for so long, Q.” His hands slides across the grass, gathering dew on his fingertips, where it clings to the mud beneath his nails. “Only time I was happy . . . was with you. Our son. Just . . . just us.”

_“Eliot, you didn’t--”_

_He rips his hands out of her grasp, and moves to get out of the bed._

_Her eyes go wide, and she looks to the door. “Julia! We need you in here!”_

He heaves in a breath, struggles to open his eyes and look across the sea of grass back up at the concrete stone. He stretches his arm out, but it’s sluggish; takes a moment for his limbs to follow the command. He laughs, the sound hollow and hacking. “They thought--I--I could just say goodbye. It’s--It’s not like with Mike.”

_“Eliot,” Margo says, sitting beside him on the bed. “You haven’t moved in days. I need you to at least eat something.”_

“You,” He pauses, forces in a shallow gust of air, “You didn’t _deserve_ to die.”

He can already feel himself slipping. Fading away. Drifting into the cool morning dew. His hands go lax in the grass, the tips of the blades of green tickling his palm. But it’s all distant. So far away, even as the water seeps in through his clothes.

He wonders who’ll find him.

“It’s okay,” He murmurs. It’s barely a sound. Drifts from his lips, and disappears with wind.

_“I talked to Todd.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Eliot--you can’t--”_

_“I’m tired, Bambi. Can we do this later?”_

_She’s quiet for a long moment, before she nods, the movement shaky and unconvincing. She clears her throat, before nodding again with a shake of her head. “Okay,” She mutters. It almost sounds like she’s holding something back._

_He wonders if it’s anything like what he’s holding back._

“I’m gonna make it right, Q,” He’s not even sure he’s speaking anymore. Can’t even feel his lips or his body. It’s all just drifting into nothingness all around him. Is this how it felt for Quentin? The slow drift into death. Or was it abrupt? Did it hurt?

“I killed you.” He tries to open his eyes, but the blackness doesn’t give way to the cemetery, and he wonders if that means he’s gone. If he’s become a part of the wind, and is drifting away--towards the underworld. Towards Quentin. Towards hell, maybe. “But neither of us needs to be alone.”

He doesn’t even feel it when his heart stops.

One moment he’s shrouded in the dark, empty nothingness.

The next, there’s a hand squeezing his, and he looks down. When had his eyes opened?

_“I’m worried about him.”_

Soft brown eyes stare up at him, as a familiar, large hand laces their fingers together. He brings his free hand up, amazed as it follows the command, to cup the familiar shape of Quentin’s jawline. He can see the disappointment dancing in Quentin’s eyes as clear as his own reflection.

Quentin’s jaw clenches, as a small, sad smile ticks the edges of his mouth upwards.

_“I can’t lose them both.”_

_“Look. This is going to sound cruel, but . . .”_

“El,” Quentin breathes, his own free hand coming up to rest on Eliot’s hip. “What did you _do_?”

_“What?”_

Eliot’s chin trembles, as he leans down to press the crown of his head to Quentin’s forehead and closes his eyes. “What I had to.”

_“I think you’re gonna have to get used to the idea that he won’t survive this.”_

"How are you here?" 

Quentin makes a face, pulling away and reaching up to graze his hand along Eliot's jaw. "I'm not." His thumb strokes across his cheek bone. "You're dying, El." 

Eliot nods, trembling as he leans into the touch. "I know," He says. The words are barely a breath, as he tries to hold onto the moment. Tries to hold onto Quentin for as long as he can.

_"Where's Eliot?"_

He feels it then, the stillness in his chest, when the hands slip from him, and fade into the wind. When it all fades, and he finally falls, falls, falls . . . 

And then there's nothing but another body finding it's home in a cemetery, eclipsed in grief, and drowning in the morning dew. A single hand lays limp at the base of the headstone, reaching out for someone it'll never find. 

_When Margo discovers his body, her scream cracks and breaks the wind._


End file.
